


Lovers of Bubble Tea

by Silberias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because Sally doesn't seem to be shipped positively with like anyone, F/M, and I want Mycroft to be happy, and still ship Sherlolly, so hence the Salcrofting you see here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The vulnerability and openness in the graveyard was because of his silence, the rain, and her tears and Mycroft was smart enough to understand that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers of Bubble Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I want Sally to be rehab'd into someone people understand and identify with. Unless you're basically John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is going to rub you the wrong way. No, don't say he wouldn't. He would. Your fairtytale love of him is Molly Hooper, and your realistic bewilderment and anger at him is Sally Donovan. They are you, two sides of the same coin.

He found her standing at his brother’s headstone.

Her long curly hair bunched up and trying to escape from the hood she’d pulled up to shield herself from the rain. Her back was ramrod straight, as were her legs which struggled to support her on the sodden earth beneath her high heels. The play in the muscles was easily seen, as Sally Donovan rarely wore pantyhose. It was in her file, derived from something an agent had overheard her say— _I’ve no need to cover up pasty legs, sod ‘em!_ Perhaps there was where his fascination with her came from: her need for her work to be impeccably done, but her fierce desire for the freedom to do whatever she wished with her person. He admired such strength, and hated to see it falter as it was now.

Mycroft stepped up next to her silently, adjusting his umbrella to shield Sally Donovan from the rain as well as himself. He came here often to think, though today he’d come _here_ purely on accident—his mission had been one to find this woman, wherever she was to be found. The press had just broken with the story of Kitty Reilly’s arrest on charges of harassment, stalking. It was on every channel, every radio talk show, and even the most respectable newspapers had picked it up. The main story was that the court’s case rested on the fact that Ms. Reilly’s news article had led to a man killing himself within hours of publication, and that that same news article was patently false.

Sally would need him, if only to remind herself how strong she really was. She had believed, as many had, that Sherlock had killed himself to relieve a guilty heart. It was the easiest explanation, one which required little heart-searching and her working relationship with Sherlock had not been a good one to begin with. But she could admit when she was wrong, otherwise Mycroft wouldn’t have bothered locating her today—because today she would begin to admit that she had been wrong, and it would start tearing her apart soon enough as the rest of the story came to light.

Mycroft had arranged that the story of his brother’s ultimate innocence would break midway through the horrid woman’s trial, exposing that not only did her story lead to a man’s death but that her story was wholly untrue. He’d known that Sally Donovan was a good policewoman, and that out of anyone close to Sherlock she would soonest start to allow guilt to eat at her sense of duty and justice. The police, the good ones at least, had a lot of fodder in the pantry of duty and justice. Guilt, especially guilt like Sally Donovan’s undoubtedly was, grew like mold in cases like this.

“I said such horrible things to him. There’s nothing to be said or changed about that, either. I said them all the time, one apology wouldn’t have been enough to erase the things I said. I know that, I _know_ it—but he—and then—and then the next day he—“ A tear rolled down one of her dark cheeks, fast over the smooth skin.

“My brother chose to end his life because of a slanderous news article—he was brilliant but just a tad unstable Sergeant Donovan, you know that. I truly doubt that your words ever rocked his world to such an extent that he was broken by them.”

“But what if I hadn’t said those things—what if he hadn’t had to deal with…” It hurt him to hear her voice wavering with restrained sobbing, but Mycroft gave away nothing.

“We won’t ever know, I’m afraid.” He stood out at the gravesite with her, holding the umbrella easily despite the sometimes lightly gusting wind, for another hour and listened to her pour her heart out. As much as she’d ever wanted him to not butt in on cases with the Met, she had never once wished Sherlock death—sometimes perhaps jail, rarer times prison, but never death.

She had her own handkerchief, so he did not offer his own, and eventually Sally wiped her eyes and then her nose. Both were a little swollen from tears, but she held her head high as though the tears were part of a distant memory no longer affecting her.

“Stupid freak might have considered waiting for the police to sort things—as they _have_ —and would still be terrorizing Anderson,” she finally looked at Mycroft who let a smile flicker at his mouth for half a second at her amused tone, “that’s a ruddy awful job, too, I’ll have you know.” Mycroft cocked one eyebrow at her, not saying a word. Sally crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one foot so she could stand more easily in heels that were likely paining her by now.

“Someone has to bully him since Sherlock—since then.” Mycroft actually chuckled at that. Sally Donovan’s eulogy to Sherlock was to continue his unwarranted vendetta against one Keith Anderson.

He took her to coffee the next week, where she was nonverbal and suspicious. The vulnerability and openness of the graveyard was because of his silence, the rain, and her tears and Mycroft was smart enough to understand that.

He bought her generic coffee even though he’d had a report drawn up on her years ago—Sally didn’t like coffee, she liked infused bubble tea. Coffee was her staple to get through the workday or a bad brunch date. Her real favorite was bubble tea. Which was good, because Mycroft enjoyed bubble tea himself on occasion. He’d been just a bit lonely since his wife had left him—taken the kids, and he’d let her. Oh, how that had upset Mummy—especially when he’d signed the divorce papers without a fuss. Annalise had said what they’d both known, though—their love had been one for their twenties and thirties, and not one to last them through their forties and beyond. They’d both looked at the divorce as a happy one, ending their relationship using honesty and trust rather than anger and spite. It was better for Anthony and Clara, too, knowing that they could rely on their parents to still rely on each other.

Mycroft would be lying if he wasn’t thinking of pursuing something with Sally now that he was sure that he was ready to move on. He no longer doubted himself with how his children would react, or how his ex-wife would react, to women he dated. His home was once again all his own, rather than looking as though one person had hurriedly moved out and that two others only rarely visited there.

The week after their visit to the coffee shop, he asked where she’d like to go after she was settled in the car—John Watson had sent him a weary text a day or two ago telling him not to kidnap people but it had been ignored—and she’d just said “home, Mr. Holmes.” He’d taken her to a Vietnamese restaurant for a quick lunch instead. Sally had gotten iced tea—an unnerving orange tea with a heavy dose of sugar and cream in it—and he’d had lunch.

“You don’t have to make me feel better, and you don’t have to watch me round the clock. I’m not going to do myself a harm,” she’d said, staring him down with her policewoman eyes as he finished ordering. The restaurant was lightly peopled by his operatives—orders for the day involved plainclothes and current-events-weather conversations and varied lunches, no matching drinks—and somehow Sally had seen that. Mycroft smiled slightly—

“Not often that people notice those around them.”

Sally took the opportunity and leaned forward to quietly lecture him.

“Do you know why Sherlock worked with Greg? With all of Greg’s team?”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, letting her finish.

“Because we were good. We _are_ good. The best. Sherlock would only work with the best, for all that sometimes he would sleep in alleys under cardboard. He was furious when Keith joined the team, he’d been grooming some woman from ‘his’ hospital to join the force as Greg’s forensics specialist. Because Keith, whatever his other flaws are, is pretty good at what he does for a living but he isn’t _the best_. Mr. Holmes, I’m the best at what I do—I interview witnesses, and handle press when Greg’s being a dolt. I know how to look at people and I can feel when I’m talking to ‘the face’ while ‘the body’ looks on.”

Sherlock’s _woman_ —Molly Hooper, but that name wasn’t important to Sally so Mycroft didn’t let on that he knew anything about her—was currently on an extended exchange with a hospital in Liverpool as a cover for her looking after Sherlock. Mycroft got weekly reports on them, and he hoped that Mummy would have more grandchildren within a few years so that she would perhaps begin to forgive _him_. Things were right on schedule, too, which is why he was taking his time with Sally. Part of him wanted to see the caramel colored faces their children would have, and another part of him—the part with a fifteen year old son and a seventeen year old daughter—was done with having and raising kids. Sherlock and Molly could pop out a few grandchildren for Mummy, and soon the woman would forget all about wanting _more_.

“Not many people take the time to look at those around them.” Sally smirked, her face bitter, and didn’t say another word for the rest of their lunch.

The third week he asked her why she didn’t try to get away as they walked through a park. He’d abstained from having the entourage follow along this time, because he’d found out what he needed from their last meeting. Sally’s curly hair bounced merrily around her face with every step, and there was just a touch of color on her lips—a recently applied stain rather than faded lipstick. Mycroft laughed along with her as she made the occasional joke, though for the most part they were both silent.

The steady click of her sensible heels on the paved walkway had his normal tension bleeding out of him. Typically he had to have several glasses of whiskey before he was this relaxed. Mycroft wasn’t a man who liked women in heels—he thought them rather impractical in every sense, and disliked the idea that women’s shoes ought not be as automatically comfortable as men’s. He didn’t care for the aesthetic appeal being heard over the plea for comfort. Sally seemed to like them though, and wore them with brash confidence.

“I’m going to Scotland next week, Mr. Holmes,” she said later as he handed her out of the car—they’d spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the park, got back into one of his cars and went back to her flat. Mycroft smiled, letting it just touch his eyes, not letting go of Sally’s hand.

“I know.”

“If you bother me there I’ll probably punch you in the solar plexus. I might even kick you.”

“That’s because you’ll be under stress from visiting your brother and his wife.”

She stared him down, gripping his hand a little tighter. She wanted a promise, that he wouldn’t bother her—she would compromise and let him continue to see her if he didn’t ruin this one thing. Just the ticket, and it was hardly even a price to pay.

“You won’t have the added stress of my presence there, of this you can be assured.” Sally herself smiled then, loosening her grip on his hand and taking a step away from him.

“Then I’ll see you when I get back.”

Mycroft’s assistants whispered that he was lonely and irritable the following week, but kept it to themselves why exactly that was. They all knew that he rarely took breaks from his work, that he was fanatically dedicated to it, but that whenever he went off to see ‘that policewoman’ he came back happier. Instead of asking him, those who worked with and for him bent their heads to their memos and lists—the division in charge of Sherlock’s rehabilitation of public character was poised to begin releasing more ‘evidence’ of Kitty Reilly’s article of falsehoods. The woman wasn’t too well off, so she didn’t have the money for an extended court case—it would begin to wind down in a month or two.

He resisted spying on Sally while she was in Scotland. She knew, fairly well, what he did for a living and she hadn’t told him not to spy—but it felt like a breach of trust. Besides, no agent was perfect at hiding. Most relied on the fact that people never _looked_ at anything around them—really, Sherlock was extraordinary but people _could_ be taught to look at the world like he did—and Sally _looked_ around herself. She didn’t get on well with her sister-in-law, and would be trying not to cause any fights with the woman. She would be distracting herself by people watching.

When she got back, he let her have three days to herself and picked her up on Thursday afternoon for coffee and biscuits. The little shop was just a few blocks from his work, so he could have walked but he didn’t want to give the impression that he would always send others to ‘retrieve her.’ Mycroft wanted to give Sally Donovan the impression that he was interested in her, interested enough to pick her up himself.

“Next time I want to go for bubble tea, Mr. Holmes.”

He wanted Sally Donovan to start being interested in him, and on her own terms too. He hadn’t used any intimidation tactics—as he had on Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and John Watson—because he hadn’t wanted to test her. Sally had, more than a month ago before the first coffee date, turned to see the black car pull up to the curb and tapped on the driver’s door window until the driver had let it down.

_Did Mycroft Holmes send you?_

The nodded response had had her opening the door to the car herself, settling in and buckling the safety belt. Mycroft, who had been about to get out of the car when she’d gotten into it herself, had only been utterly bemused. Sally didn’t let anyone push her around, and if they _tried_ they paid for it dearly. Her words were quite sharp at times.

“Then bubble tea it shall be, Sergeant Donovan.”

She could defend herself, and Mycroft liked that in a woman.

“Sally.”

Even if this didn’t work out—Mycroft had learned from his first marriage not to presume to know a lifetime’s worth of decisions no matter how sure he felt—he would like being closer to her.

“Mycroft.”

 

 


End file.
